However, I didn’t have a protocol for a furious pregnant Irish omega going into labour on a custom velvet sofa while the other two thirds of our pack were en route to Moscow.
This was a failure of preparation.
The moment I saw the fluid hit the floor, my mind began arranging facts.
Nearest hospital.
Distance.
Traffic.
Exposure.
Medical support.
Likelihood of making it there before delivery.
Likelihood of Maeve arguing the entire way.
The second thought was high enough to be useless.
“Gregor,” she gasped as her hands splayed across her belly.
“Let me get you on the bed.”
“I need the hospital.”
I picked up off the floor, and placed her on her feet. “Can you walk? Or can I carry you?”
“I’ll break your back.” Her fingers dug into my sleeve as another pain ripped through her, and something old and ugly in my chest sharpened into focus.
I held her against me.
I had carried wounded men under gunfire. Once, I dragged Ivan from a burning warehouse while he complained about a knife. I’d even held men still while they bled out and lied to me.
But none of that prepared me for Maeve shaking in my arms.
“It’s Braxton Hicks again,” she said through gritted teeth.
“The fluid on the floor says otherwise.”
She glanced down. “Why now?”
“Babies are poor at respecting schedules.”
“That is not helpful.”
“It is accurate.”
“Gregor.”
The way she said my name did something unpleasant to my composure.
I got her onto the sofa, lowering her carefully. Fergus stood nearby trembling with outrage, every inch of him radiating the deep offense of a tiny dog whose omega was in distress.
“Guard,” I told him.
He barked once and positioned himself by the new Prada slippers Artem had bought her like an armed perimeter unit in a fur coat.
